


By Dark Heart Fallen

by Parthenopaon



Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: F/F, One Shot, Rare Pairings, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-26
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-03-02 08:08:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23847940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Parthenopaon/pseuds/Parthenopaon
Summary: "You say your aid extends not only to the Forsaken but to me as their queen?""Yes," Calia replies, voice thick."Then sing me a song, not of woe, but desire welcomed and reveled in." She cups Calia's cheek, and there is a tenderness to her touch belied by the unrelenting chill leeching off of her. "I heard you calling to the specters long before you began to sing, Calia Menethil, and though ghosts draw each other like flesh does the blade, your grief is a bell and I the devoted listener." She smiles, slow and unsettling. "Sing to me and I will sing to you, banshee to priest, Darkness to Light."
Relationships: Sylvanas/Calia
Comments: 10
Kudos: 35





	By Dark Heart Fallen

**Author's Note:**

> Someone had to do it.

_Oh, the fireflies at war gather_

_Oh, the damage that's been done, paid for_

_Won't you reveal yourself to me?_

_As I rise above the deep_

_Won't you reveal yourself to me?_

_Oh_

_Oh, the fireflies above gather_

_Oh, the damage that's been done, paid for_

_Now won't you save yourself for me?_

_Won't you save yourself for me?_

**_'Juno'_** **by TesseracT**

She awakes among dust and darkness. 

Her head throbs, stiffness bleeding from the base of her skull into her back. She tries to turn her head and hisses when the muscles pull taut, agony lancing down her spine so swiftly it leaves her toes tingling. 

Calia grimaces. Her mouth tastes of ash and copper. She runs her tongue across a cut on the inside of her lip, the dull throb spreading down her chin to rest with the stiffness in her neck and the ache bleeding down her spine. She spreads her fingers across threadbare sheets and dark animal furs. 

She recalls little save the Dark Lady’s burning eyes and the thorn worming its way into her hand.

The bed is large enough to shelter two adult gryphons, all massive oak and decorative carvings. Sheer draperies dance in the wind like silver mist floating atop dark waters. Moonlight cascades through the windows furthest left, cracked glass fracturing its light into diamond-sharp lines. Strange shapes seem to undulate within the shadows, drawing the eyes in a way that makes Calia’s stomach churn. Dust blankets the carpets and the couches but the sheets are clean. 

There is a scent to the room she cannot quite place. It calls to mind the scent of sun-struck statues and forgotten yesterdays, and her heart aches when she recognizes the white oak vanity. 

_The Queen's Tower._

Her mother's room. 

Another ghost she has to lay to rest.

"Now you are awake," Sylvanas Windrunner says, her voice rending through Calia's grief like claws through flesh, "perhaps we can have a proper conversation.” She leans forward in her chair, allowing the moonlight to spill across her blue-gray skin. Divested of her armor, all black leathers and burning eyes, she is more terror than ghost, her banshee's voice so strangely layered that it seems to rake itself along the inside of Calia's skull. "You will tell me why you are here, in my city, Calia Menethil, and depending on the sincerity and plausibility of your answer, I will decide if you are worth what little effort it will take to raise your bones." 

Calia tries to swallow. But there is little moisture left to her, and instead, she chokes on her breath. The wracking coughs spasm through her body, and an answering ache comes from both her skull and her right arm. She looks down to find the latter wrapped in clean bandages. She spreads her palm and is surprised to find the circular wound carefully stitched and coated in a glassy, greenish substance. Of the black veins there is no sign. "Did you do this?"

Sylvanas arches a long, elegant eyebrow.

Calia has not spent much time interacting with elves but knows complex messages can be read from the tilt of their eyebrows and angle of their ears. The only message Sylvanas's ears convey is adamant resolve. 

"I have asked a question, and I expect the answer before the moon reaches its zenith." 

"You have my thanks either way." She expects no apology for the added scars. The undead do not view injury in the same light the living do. "As to your question, I---" Her voice cracks. She blinks away the image of Queen Lianne seated in front of her vanity, a soft brush combing through her waist-length hair.

_Calia…_

"The bloodmoon roses were my mother's favorite, and I wanted to take a sprig for our garden.”

Sylvanas narrows her eyes. “'Our garden?’”

“The gardens of the Netherlight Temple,” Calia clarifies. “She would have loved it, I think, to know others can enjoy what she so carefully nurtured."

"You return to the city of the damned," Sylvanas asks as if speaking to a particularly slow-witted child, “a city haunted by ghouls and restless skeletons, where ghosts hunt each other like feral hounds, all for a dead woman's flowers?"

"Not just any woman," Calia replies, drawing her knees up to her chin, "and not just any flowers. _My mother's roses_." She does not expect the undead to understand. According to Archbishop Faol, undeath had tainted even his most beloved memories, and it had taken a decade and more before he could recall them without the added shade of bitterness or despair. 

Sylvanas does not look like she has reached that stage of acceptance. Chance was she never would. 

Calia pities her for all that she lost but admires the resilience it must have taken to claw out of the pit into which she had been thrown. Lordaeron would never have been left standing had she not rallied the free-willed undead to her banner. "Am I your prisoner," Calia asks, "because if so, you'll find little political use for me. No one knows who I am, and even should they, none will bargain with you for a fallen woman." 

The hard planes of Sylvanas's face take on a different cast---not softer---but more considerate. Her unsettling eyes observe Calia's posture, the way she curls in on herself, one of her hands fisted in the sheets. "I have considered it, yes. And no matter your abysmal opinion of your current circumstances, you _are_ the Princess of Lordaeron. To the humans it matters not that the Lordaeron of old no longer exists, they will try and conquer it in your name nonetheless. You need not even agree with it. Such is human bigotry." 

"Kill me then," Calia says, the truth too bitter to bear scrutiny, "and save yourself the trouble. Bury me beneath my mother's garden, and continue with the knowledge that there are no more inconvenient heirs to challenge your claim to the throne of Lordaeron."

"I could kill you, yes, and have you fed to a pack of howling ghouls, but what would it serve me? Death is final. Far too final for the potential you possess." 

Calia's stomach plummets. "Faith in the goodness of the Light is all that has kept me from walking into the sea, and I would rather death take me than tear me from the hope the Light has given me." 

A long moment of silence follows.

Sylvanas seems to consider her with even deeper scrutiny, her eyes all but scouring Calia's skin open. "Some bear undeath better than others, but bear it they do. Weakness often takes care of itself, and where it does not, we Forsaken step in." She leans into the high backed chair, deep shadows casting her mouth into a grim, bitter line. "Alas, you will serve me better alive than undead. The Alliance most certainly would have something to say should your survival and return be made public. Lament your past all you like, Calia Menethil, but do not mistake misery for a lack of worth. I intend to use you to ensure the Forsaken continue to thrive." The unyielding tone of her voice leaves no doubt: this is no idle threat or promise but a vow.

_Stand with me or do not stand at all._

It is brutally simple and Calia hugs herself close. "A broken vessel would serve your interests better," she says bitterly. "Do you not understand, Queen Windrunner? Lordaeron is no more. The ghosts wandering its broken paths possess more substance than whatever memory lingers on in its survivors."

"And yet hope remains."

Calia does not dispute it. The existence of the Sons of Lothar, of the Bloodfang Pack and their Lordaeron support, of the Church of the Holy Light and its zealous undead prosecution all point to the same conclusion: the Lordaeron of old can be rebuilt, even if it must be on the bones of the Forsaken. 

She wants nothing to do with any of it.

Sylvanas crosses her ankle over one knee, and after a long moment says, "Despite evidence to the contrary, I am not inflexible." Her posture changes subtly. She lounges, the width of her shoulders tightening the leather jacket across her chest and shoulders. Her ashen hair falls straight and true, its luster restored by the moonlight cascading down its strands. Here and there a glimpse of white-gold can be caught, and Calia's fingers twitch. She has none of the vitality living elves possess, none of their golden beauty or lively splendor, but the darkness is a wonder all its own, and Calia cannot deny there is a certain allure to the blue-gray color of her skin and the burning red of her eyes. Sylvanas Windrunner, once a daughter of the sun, is now a creature of darkness and ice. 

And Calia is not as unaffected as she fervently wishes.

"Think on it. You can return to your people---those forsaken by Light and family---prevent yourself from being used as a pawn against them, and keep your connection to the Light." She gestures to the room around them, likely encompassing Capital City itself. "All without putting yourself squarely in the path of my arrows."

"Return to my people," Calia echoes bluntly. "In what capacity? I have no desire to rule, and no head for politics." 

"They already have a queen, a Dark Lady, but perhaps they require a glove less steel and more velvet." She tugs off and sets aside her gloves, the supple leather making not a whisper of a sound. "Perhaps the hand of a priest so sentimental she would return to a damned city for a mere sprig of her mother's favorite rose. To have said priest be the last living Menethil, one not despised, but mourned along with her father, remembered with kindness for her gentle heart? They would thank me with their foreheads pressed to the ground for allowing you to administer to their woes."

Calia averts her eyes though the urge to stare is almost overwhelming. The buttons of the Banshee Queen's jacket are undone. The muscles shifting beneath the smooth plains of her chest draw the eye in ways less chaste than Calia would like to admit. "One would think we Menethils would be despised one and all for the ruin my brother wrought."

"Fortunately, the Forsaken possess both sense and free will, though not always in equal measure." Her voice hardens, the dual-toned echo becoming more pronounced as black tendrils dance across her shoulders. "And I am honest enough not to blame the sister for the entitled brother's actions."

Calia wrings her fingers, her palm smarting as the stitches pull taut. "The idea is not a bad one but…" She bites her lip. "I will need time to consider." The last word only just stumbles past her lips. 

Sylvanas tips her chin up and Calia expects arrows to come flying from the shadows. Her request is polite, but it would be deceptively easy to mistake for refusal. And Sylvanas Windrunner does not look like a woman to take refusal well.

"Of course," Sylvanas says, her stare burning brighter. "As long as said thinking occurs here, with you as my guest and myself as your host, you may take as long as it requires the moon to grow full." She stands, and her jacket falls open down the middle. It is enough to give Calia a glimpse of rippling muscle and a swell of breasts, the glimmering shadow of something darker carved across her stomach drawing the eye. It glitters like a frozen, star-struck lake, its edges raised and angry.

_The scar._

By now the tales of the former Ranger-General's fall are widespread and varied, differing from mouth to mouth and tongue to tongue, but no matter what corner of the world a particular version originates, all are agreed: she bears the legendary runeblade's mark to this day. 

Calia rubs careful fingers across her injured hand before asking, "Does it hurt, your scar?" 

It is unsettling and flattering how intense Sylvanas's scrutiny of her is. "I do not need your pity."

And frustrating how paranoid she is of simple curiosity. "It is not pity, but concern. I am a healer, and though I cannot claim to be capable of performing miracles, I have healed living and undead alike, saving many from slipping away from this existence." Calia meets Sylvanas’s gaze without flinching and says: "If I am to aid the Forsaken then you as the Banshee Queen are also included.”

Sylvanas steps closer until she's looming over Calia. Cast in full moonlight, she looks like a marble statue reanimated, one weathered and discarded after a thousand and one years spent braving the elements. The sight of the layered tears seared into her skin makes Calia wring her fingers harder. 

_Arthas did this._

Her little brother. 

And Sylvanas is offering her the chance of a lifetime: return and try and heal at least somewhat that which Arthas so ruthlessly shattered. 

Cast such light, she does not look so terrifying now. Worn down, exhausted eyes, but of adamant will and iron command. Not a woman to be trifled with. 

Calia has faced worst odds and emerged the better for it. 

"Where have you been all these long years, Calia Menethil?" Sylvanas nods at her arm, where the torn sleeve had exposed Calia's scars. "Such scars are common among the Forsaken, mostly those killed by ghouls and other weaker undead."

Calia smiles, slow and bitter. "Hiding and running like a coward, too frightened to claim my name for fear of being lynched, be it by ghouls or the living. Times were harsh, and I---"

_...had a daughter to protect._

She does not finish her sentence. There is no need. Loss is a common experience among the living and the undead. 

Sylvanas understands. Her scrutiny is less fierce, her expression not so remote. And when she holds out her hand---bare of gloves or clawed gauntlets---Calia is given a choice to refuse. 

She does not. 

Sylvanas Windrunner's skin is as cold and smooth as a block cut from the heart of a sunken glacier. The fingers she closes around Calia's have no fingernails, the tips shaded more towards purple than blue. 

_Marble, frost, and darkness made manifest; a heartbreaking enigma._

Calia is surprised to find that she can feel scars. Minute and raised, perhaps dealt with knives or arrowheads; a ranger's scars. 

Sylvanas lifts their joined hands, astonishingly dark eyelashes shading her eyes when she turns Calia's hand and traces a feather-light kiss across the inside of her wrist. "Am I right," she whispers, shadowed tendrils dancing across her shoulders, "when I say it is desire instead of disgust I see in your eyes?" She does not breathe, but the breath washing across Calia's skin when she speaks is cool rather than cold, akin to a freshwater pond at dusk.

Calia shivers. A deep, abiding chill pervades her flesh, goosebumps breaking out across her skin. "No," she whispers back, "you are not wrong." It is not unpleasant this chill. Different, yes, but she carries the Light within, and it warms her from within even as she is frozen from without. Her fingers twitch, and this time she does not hold back. Calia reaches out, combing her fingers through the ends of Sylvanas's ashen hair. It is smooth and brittle, but Calia is left with the impression that, were the strands to be drawn taut across her fingers, she might well find herself bleeding half to death from the subsequent injuries. 

"You say your aid extends not only to the Forsaken but to me as their queen?"

"Yes," Calia replies, voice thick.

"Then sing me a song, not of woe, but desire welcomed and reveled in." She cups Calia's cheek, and there is a tenderness to her touch belied by the unrelenting chill leeching off of her. "I heard you calling to the specters long before you began to sing, Calia Menethil, and though ghosts draw each other like flesh does the blade, your grief is a bell and I the devoted listener." She smiles, slow and unsettling. "Sing to me and I will sing to you, banshee to priest, Darkness to Light." She leans closer, her hair trailing down Calia's face. "In this city of the damned, there are only memories to judge us by."

"Memories and ghosts, and pasts we'll never outrun."

"For this night, in this tower, we need not flee, only fly." She tips Calia's chin up, her intensity such that the shadows seem to thicken, darkness reaching to wrap them both in its embrace. "Return to Lordaeron. Join with me and assure the Forsaken that that which the Alliance covets is rightfully theirs."

Calia has no definite answer to give, not yet. But she sits up, and when Sylvanas leans in, she welcomes the offered kiss with murmured ascent. "I cannot fly."

The answer comes from within, dark as dark and spellbinding; a banshee's hypnotic call. _"Had you wings, I would have tarnished them."_

The Dark Lady tastes of old copper, sun struck forests, and something darker, more elusive Calia cannot place. It calls to mind a tower looming against endless night, its spires wreathed in winged shapes and dancing lights. In these lights is reflected eternity; an eternity of loss, of sorrow, and a hatred that dare not speak its name. 

It is cold, the spectral tower, and when Sylvanas presses close, her weight pinning Calia into old, familiar sheets, Calia wraps her tight, fingers digging into soft leather. The heat building within is only bearable because Sylvanas is more glacier than flesh. She is heavy and powerfully built, and Calia craves the smoothness of her skin. 

Intimacy has been rare, sexual intimacy even more so. Being wanted, craved and devoured is frightening and exciting, and Calia squeezes her eyes shut when they begin to burn. She cannot cry, not now. 

_"Do not hide from me."_

It is not a command.

Sylvanas smoothes her thumbs across Calia's cheeks, the kiss as ephemeral as starlight before she leans away.

Calia opens her eyes and tears cloud her vision. They trickle down her temples and into her hair. But they are not bitter or cold. Relief floods her when Sylvanas does not laugh or glare. It is only now that they are so close that Calia notices that Sylvanas does not have full red eyes. Instead, edged darkness bleeds into red, and amid the inferno, a single point lies, blacker than night and more depthless than a starless sea. Calia pushes at her shoulders, further parting the jacket, and Sylvanas tosses it aside before properly straddling Calia's hips, enclosing her between powerful thighs. 

"Will you not reveal yourself to me?" Her voice is not soft but it is quiet. No tendrils dance at her shoulders and the ever-present echo is less noticeable. 

Calia swallows thickly. Her fingers slip on the buttons of her robes. Her right hand aches, the wound where the thorn burrowed its way deep pulling taut. 

The Dark Lady is an enrapturing distraction. Bared before moon and stars, enclosed in a room haunted by the murmurs of a familiar ghost, she is a statuesque rend in reality. There is such power contained beneath her discolored skin, the muscles sculpted to perfection achievable only in undeath. And there are scars, more scars than Calia had thought possible. Pale scars that glitter like the surface of a frozen lake only because they are not scars but wounds; open wounds sealed with ice. Frostmourne's mark is the largest and most furious of them all. Its edges are raised but clean, and like her fingertips, more purple than blue. A glacier wound for a menace made flesh.

Sylvanas places a calming hand atop Calia's. Her chill pervades overheated skin, driving off the pain with a soothing numbness. She arches a brow, her unspoken question echoed by Calia's shivering. 

But Calia does not want her to stop. Her skin craves the cold, and she fears that if Sylvanas pulls away, she will go up in celestial flames within her mother's broken tower. She takes a deep, calming breath and her fingers no longer tremble. 

They undress each other, hands patient and lingering, and when Sylvanas once more covers Calia with her body, they are both slick and starving. 

Calia moans. She draws Sylvanas in for a desperate kiss, her hands greedy for the taste of her. Sunstruck stone, forgotten yesterdays and damp earth, the Dark Lady's scent enraptures as much as it intrigues, and Calia breathes in deep, her fingers tangled in ashen hair.

"Patience," Sylvanas murmurs, scoring the inside of Calia's lower lip lightly. Her fangs present a sharp danger. It is a danger Calia does not heed, and when their teeth clash, the taste of copper intensifies. Sylvanas inhales sharply, a strange crackling noise emitting from her chest. She chases the taste of Calia's blood, her tongue delving deep. 

Breathing becomes a secondary concern, shadows dancing across Calia's eyelids as they thrust against each other. Their legs are tangled, the thickness of Sylvanas's thigh flexing against her sex. 

_By the Light..._

They are both so wet. 

Stars burst at the base of Calia's skull. She does not turn away until her lungs constrict and her chest threatens to collapse. Gasping for breath, her vision dancing as if she is caught on a ship braving a storm, Calia trembles. "You will be the death of me." Her voice is hoarse, fire and ice dueling to enter her breath.

Sylvanas hums darkly. "One day when you know for yourself the advantages that come with existing outside the bonds of Life, you will look back on this night and remember that I brought Death without taking your life." She nips at Calia's ear, her tongue tracing the shell in a pattern that makes Calia's toes curl. "Take my hand," she whispers, rolling off of Calia, "and show me how you desire to be touched. _Let me see you bloom."_

Calia's cheeks flush red. Her thighs tremble.

Sylvanas trails her hand down Calia's heaving stomach, and Calia follows, ice becoming fire. Their fingers entwine above her sex, Sylvanas murmuring encouragement into her hair. 

Calia draws in a lungful of air that seems incapable of sustaining her. Anticipation is a sphere growing in her gut, its flames spilling like liquid desire down her legs. 

She shudders when their fingers glide through her pubic hair with delicious ease. Sylvanas's fingers are cold as ice; her own almost too hot to bear. Combined it leaves her feeling as if the earth has cracked open beneath her. Calia turns her head and moans into Sylvanas's chest. 

"So wet," the Dark Lady murmurs. She follows Calia's lead, fingers working slow and sure. Hot and cold, fingertips parting slick hollows and drawing slow circles, Calia watches as Sylvanas's eyes flare when she spreads her thighs wider. Her hips buck and Calia sobs. A cruel thumb circles her clit, bursts of lightning arcing up her spine. 

"Don't stop," she pleads, "by the Light don't you dare---"

Sylvanas stops. She cups Calia's sex, trapping their fingers together. 

Calia's vision hazes as red as bloodied dawn. The urge to beg is so strong she bites down on Sylvanas's collarbone. 

The Dark Lady does not react.

Instead, she grinds her palm down, her touch far too light to bring the release Calia so desperately craves. "Hmmm, not quite yet, princess. Not until I've had a taste." Her voice is dark and filled to bursting with terrible promise. 

This time when Calia's toes curl, her body follows suit. She clamps her thighs together and rolls into Sylvanas. But she is no match for the Dark Lady's unyielding physicality. 

Sylvanas does not budge an inch. Instead, she slowly draws their fingers up Calia's slit, her grip too strong to be easily broken. 

Calia squeezes her eyes shut. Her hips buck, desperately seeking what friction there is to be found. But Sylvanas is thorough and merciless, and she gives not one ounce of pressure more than that required to further drive Calia along the edge. 

"Don't you realize, Calia Menethil? I can keep you here, shivering and sweating, pleading and clawing the whole night through." Her fingertips work just above Calia's clit, drawing pleasure without spilling release. 

Calia breathes in the scent of frozen forests and moonlit battlefields, her toes digging into threadbare sheets. 

"A single taste is all it will take," she whispers, coaxing with fingers and voice. "Just one and I will give you the release you so desperately crave."

With stars bursting to life in her peripheral vision and her thighs incapable of relaxing, Calia finally understands what it is Sylvanas wants. 

_A single taste…_

And all she has to do is hold on long enough to see the Dark Lady's promise fulfilled.

_One taste..._

Drawing a deep, shuddering breath, Calia draws up their hands. 

Sylvanas watches, eyes burning fierce enough to rival the noonday sun. But there is little light and no heat to her. A cold burn this, glacier slow and depthless, scouring Calia's eyes as if she means to devour her soul. 

Their fingers glisten in the silvery light of the moon, Calia's curled and trembling, Sylvanas's relaxed and still. 

Calia suppresses the urge to shiver when Sylvanas smiles. 

Such dark promise… 

She draws her fingertips across the Dark Lady's soft lips, and her muscles clench. 

Had Calia not been near to going up in flames, the sight of Sylvanas drawing in her fingers might have been enough to melt her into a trembling puddle. Instead her breath hitches, the cold soothing the flames burning within.

Sylvanas laps at Calia's fingers, drawing her tongue across the pads in slow strokes. Her eyelashes flutter and she sighs like a desert traveler dipping into a spring cool enough to shatter glass. 

Calia can bear it no longer. She surges forward. The kiss is desperate and messy, the taste of her on Sylvanas's lips enough to leave stars exploding in her skull. 

"Damn you, touch me already." It is both a whispered plea and a firm demand. But it is one the Dark Lady seems equally desperate to fulfill. 

When Calia clutches her close, throwing a thigh over her hip, Sylvanas wastes no time in pressing her into the mattress. Her hand slips between them, and Calia barely has time to draw breath enough to moan before Sylvanas slips two fingers inside of her. 

The glide is so smooth, the cold so delicious, Calia sobs, her fingers scrabbling and clutching at Sylvanas's broad shoulders. "You will find," Sylvanas says, her voice infuriatingly steady, "that as long as you yield, I have no issue keeping my promises."

And so she does. 

Calia wraps her thighs around Sylvanas’s hips. Muscles bunch and shift beneath her fingers and Calia moans aloud, her hips bucking in time to the thumb circling her clit.

Lightning and fire meet and spark, liquid heat searing down her thighs.

Sylvanas hooks her fingers, working them in circles without and within. 

And this time when the earth opens up beneath her, Calia plunges. She moans and sobs, muscles going rigid. The fall is so exquisite, the chill and heat so entwined, she barely notices when Sylvanas straddles her thigh. 

Stars bursting in her vision and sweat pouring down every inch of her, Calia collapses, her breath rasping in and out. Her vision swims, and it is only after Sylvanas withdraws her fingers and kisses her tears away that Calia realizes that she's crying. 

Though breathing is difficult and moving is as slow as wading through molasses, Calia draws Sylvanas closer. She angles her thigh up and the Dark Lady shudders. 

"Kiss me," she pleads and Sylvanas obliges. Calia breathes her deep, encouraging Sylvanas's desperate dance. She is slick and cold, and when she collapses, shuddering and tearing into the sheets and the mattress beneath, Calia is there to catch her. 

Sylvanas has no heartbeat; she draws no breath and makes no sound, but she allows Calia to hold her close. Together they recover their senses, sensitive skin drawing heat, and radiating cold. 

Calia trails her fingers up the deep groove of Sylvanas's spine, blood trickling from her palm. Her touch is light, so light she can barely register it above the rapid beating of her own heart. But Sylvanas murmurs a phrase in Thalassian, something low and sweet Calia cannot comprehend but understands. And she replies: "Had I wings, they would have glowed all the brighter for your touch." 

They are ghosts trapped in the city of the damned, but they are ghosts with a firm grasp of the follies of fate. 

Calia does not know if she can do as the Dark Lady asks. She has few answers and knows little of the Forsaken and the horrors they were made to suffer. 

But she will try. 

Alonsus Faol taught her not all undead are alike, and the Dark Lady has proven to be more than a horror come crawling out of a shattered grave. 

Given enough time and patience, like Queen Lianne's bloodmoons growing into defiled soul and cracked streets, they might strike a balance between them that would serve and preserve Lordaeron and her peoples, be they living or undead. 

Calia lifts their entwined hands and places a kiss on the inside of the Dark Lady's wrist.

Sylvanas smirks. "You will know the Darkness yet, Calia Menethil."

"All things in balance, Sylvanas Windrunner, be they Light and Dark or flight and fall."

**Author's Note:**

> This is not quite as well edited as I'd like, but at some point, we must all admit defeat. 
> 
> I'm really hoping I'm not the only one who sees the potential these two have.


End file.
